Maneuver

Inspirational song: Rock and Roll All Nite (Kiss)

Friday night in the big town. Whose catch phrase was that? Was that Gary England, the Oklahoma City weatherman? Probably. The line was always delivered with a little twinkle in his eye, like he knew if you were home at ten, watching him on the news, you weren't out partying on a Friday night. I had one of those Friday nights. I thought briefly about going out to a movie, but I haven't been able to convince myself to leave the house in more than 48 hours, so why pretend today was different? I've been more sensitive to cold this week, even on days when the weather was honestly just fine by Colorado winter standards. I've had muscle fatigue and a general disinterest in getting anything done outside of my own walls. I considered moving my base of operations to the spot in front of the bedroom TV for said movie, assuming something good was on HBO or Netflix, but even that seemed like too much of a brouhaha. I just wanted quiet, so I got it.

While I bonded with my favorite chair, I watched Harvey perform a perfectly choreographed cat maneuver. I had made salads with leftover steak sliced on top. He came begging for some from his father, who obliged him with a little of the chewy part, just like the piece Athena talked him out of moments earlier. He approached it warily. He popped up and sniffed. He pretended he was stealing. He hopped up on the arm of the chair where it was set for him. He discovered it was cow, which he Does Not Like. And then he threw it on the floor to Athena. (She hissed, lunged for it, growled, and ran off to eat in, all within the span of a second of it hitting the floor.) I wisely had my camera out for most of it, although zoomed too tightly to catch the Murder Floof who ended up with the treat. Proud of himself, Harvey then settled at my feet and kept me pinned in my chair for so long that I never did get up and see what movies were available on TV.

No Joy of Cooking

Inspirational song: It's a Mistake (Men at Work)

French macarons are hard. Failure is easy. I made marginally passable ones a couple of years ago. The ones I tried to make today were a mess. 

The goal was to make red and yellow macarons for the party Sunday. I am so glad I got practice early. I made many fatal errors with these. They came out pink, hollow, chewy, and spread out too far. I thought I had mixed the batter properly. Piping them out was a nightmare. I tore the bag and covered my hands in batter by the time I had 40 or so discs piped out. I think the oven temp was too low. I know for certain that my oven is too small for good air flow. And the marks I drew to attempt to make uniformly sized cookies transferred to the bases of the finished food. 

The only positive was that they tasted good. I bought a raspberry emulsion from the cake decorating section of the craft store, and I got the proportions right. They sort of tasted like Frankenberry cereal, if I can remember all the way back to childhood. 

I had a handful of them myself, and I saved the rest to give the gaming group (who was here on a Thursday--we are mixing the schedule up during this semester). I told them I named this recipe "raspberry F-ups." (Only I didn't abbreviate.) They answered back, "you mean 'F-arons?'" 

I'll try again before Sunday. I will go back and get the right clamps for the piping tip, and maybe a more intense food coloring. If they fail again, maybe I just use the egg yolks I separated and make a lemon custard and forget the cookies.

Homebody

Inspirational song: Question (Moody Blues)

Oh, who am I kidding? I've been stringing myself along for days, writing far more than I actually felt like I could. I have to pull the plug on that nonsense tonight. My body is sore everywhere and my brain is as high-functioning as a bucket of beef and barley soup. And yes, I compare it to something I can't consume on purpose.

Maybe if I go to sleep now, I can get decent enough rest to accomplish more tomorrow, like take my car in for emissions and renew the tag, like I was supposed to do today. Instead my feet never crossed the threshold. I'm not even ashamed. Just tired.

Airflow Adjustment

Inspirational song: Breathe (Pink Floyd)

How many days is it supposed to take to get used to a CPAP machine? (I use CPAP as a generic term. It's an adjustable flow, whatever that acronym is.) It hasn't quite been two weeks yet. So far I'm not loving it. I was warned by a friend not to sleep on my right side, to avoid swallowing too much air. Being a side sleeper, it's hard to prevent it all that often. I've learned that if I take the mask off by five or six in the morning, I can get an hour or two on my right side and feel balanced without feeling like a dirigible.

I've also turned the heat way down, which helped some, and things got better when I forgot to fill the humidifier reservoir yesterday, and it ran out at about the same time during the night when I usually struggle with the air feeling too muggy.

Maybe someday I will feel like my sleep quality is improved enough and if I'm really lucky, I'll stop feeling like I'm struggling to breathe at all with the mask on. For now, it's sort of a burden. I hope it gets better.

Impulse Control

Inspirational song: I Don’t Know (Ozzy Osbourne)

Will I ever find a new reservoir of self-control? Will there come a day when I can again walk through Target without skimming through kid stuff? I’m not feeling positive that the day will come soon. In fact, it’s getting harder to steer away from the fun stuff. To date I spend most of my time perusing the clearance racks, so maybe that can be the balm on my sore conscience.

Do we need more tiny clothes? Probably not. But who could pass up a classic blue sweater for a kid who will live in Colorado? Expect to see it in use no sooner than winter 2021-2022. Until then, I have a good storage spot.

For all that I’m trying to resist clothes, I am letting my shopping cart merge into the highway of toy purchases. Not up to full speed yet, but one of the basic necessities jumped into my hands. Every grandma’s house needs one of those stacking ring toys. It’s mandatory.

Forum

Inspirational song: Mrs Robinson (Simon & Garfunkel)

There was a candidate’s forum this afternoon, for the seven or eight folks who are running in the Senate primary for Colorado. It was hosted by our local Latinx community, with a focus on issues that affect them particularly. I really intended on going to it, but when I looked up and it was an hour before the doors opened, and I was still in my pajamas, waiting for the coffee that never kicked in to wake me up, I admitted to myself I wasn’t going to make it. Then the most wonderful thing happened. I was scrolling through Twitter, and a notification popped up that one of the political pages I belong to was hosting a watch party to livestream it. I got to see the entirety of it from my living room, sitting comfortably with my feet up, all without having to shower, dress, drive, or be in public. Ain’t technology grand?

There were a few glitches with the livestream. Sometimes the picture froze or the audio cut out. I thought it was my WiFi, until one of the middle candidates mentioned that the feed in the overflow room was glitching too. (Overflow room! There were 300 people in the main auditorium, and a packed overflow room. I’m even more thankful for having the ability to watch from home.) I found a post-it note pad and pencil on the side table next to me, and made a few notes as the different candidates came and went. The one I really didn’t like to start with didn’t make any better of an impression on me today. There was one who just couldn’t stay on topic and answer what she was given. There was another guy who seemed smart but lacked charisma to a degree that I just couldn’t picture him winning. And there were at least three who gave me hope for the future. I went into this torn between two people in the primary. Now I have three or four contenders. I had wanted to view this forum to narrow my choices. Instead I doubled them.

I needed something to do with my hands, since my tablet was on the charger in a different room, and I wasn’t about to multitask on the phone, risking interrupting the stream. I picked up the yarn my older daughter gave me at Christmas, with the implication that it should be used for her niece or nephew to be. (She doesn’t crochet or knit.) It’s chunky chenille blanket yarn, and it’s super soft. I started making the pattern that was on the label, and it was soothing and just engaging enough to keep my mind active while I listened to the speeches on the livestream. I might have to buy one more skein of this color to make a baby blanket, but it will be a neat one. The colors are cool and interesting, and the textures will feel wonderful to tiny hands.

Messaging

Inspirational song: Ms. Jackson (OutKast)

Wait, was it always like this? Surely not. Spencer’s didn’t use to be this far out there, did it? When did it switch from fart jokes to actual bondage sex toys? I had to go in one when I went to a mall with one of the kids, and I was honestly surprised at how far they have pushed the envelope these days. I guess the sophomoric humor of my generation just seems quaint now.

I worked far outside my supply of spoons today. At first, it was just going to be a quick trip to King Soopers for fillings for crepes. Then I checked my pantry, and discovered I was low on cassava flour for them, so I had to add in a trip to the natural foods store for that. And I added in a donation drop off at the thrift store, and then I just went crazy and said I’d check Target for Kansas City t-shirts to wear to the party next week. After driving myself all over town and making a fancy brunch, I threw all caution to the wind, and went with one of the girls to the giant mall that’s in that no-man’s land between Broomfield, Westminster, and Louisville. I have no idea which city actually claims it. I finally found a Chiefs t-shirt there, but I walked miles to be able to find it. I’m going to pay for it tomorrow.

Within five feet of each other at Spencer’s were conflicting but corresponding messages. I just don’t know where to go with it. I just took pictures and sent them to the daughter who stayed home. They kind of encompass my whole impression of that store now.

Bingo Card

Inspirational song: Poor, Poor Pitiful Me (Warren Zevon)

Before I jump into the me, me, me stuff, I would like to pour out a 40 for one of the greatest songwriters of all time, Warren Zevon. I didn’t know that he shared a birthday (Jan 24) with my bestie from college, but apparently he did. Since I discovered his music when we were at CU, can I pretend he is an old college friend too? I don’t think he’d mind. He certainly wouldn’t say anything about it now.

Well, dammit. Just after 5 this evening, I got a call from my doctor’s assistant. She had been trying to track down the tests I had done over the Christmas break, and now that they have copies in their records too, they expressed concern over what I thought was just an incidental finding on the CT scan. They want me to come in and talk about Yet Another Specialist. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have an ENT doc on my bingo card for this year, but that’s where she’s sending me next. Dr Google made it sound pretty common, the detail she wants looked at, so I’m not scared or anything. I’m just wondering when some drug company will finally take notice of me and sponsor me like a NASCAR driver. It would be nice to get paid for all this running around I’m doing. It’s a full time job keeping up with these appointments. I’m pretty sure eventually there won’t be a doctor in town who hasn’t seen a piece of me.

I think that’s it. I got nothin’ else. I will have to get up and go take a picture of one of the cats or something. Then it might be early bedtime.

Special, Again

Inspirational song: Afraid of Sunlight (Marillion)

Another day, another specialist.

There is a scene in Clue (the movie) when the party guests are so emotionally exhausted that as they shuffle as a group room to room, finding the bodies of further victims, they no longer react. They find the singing telegram girl on the front porch, and they just push the door shut and turn away. This is the level of enthusiasm I mustered to face my latest doctor visit.

I’ve had pain, pressure, and swelling in the upper right quadrant of my abdomen since the night before President Reagan was shot. I remember the date, because I messed up my perfect attendance record at school, but couldn’t even zone out in front of the TV because all the programming had been preempted. I’ve been experiencing pain there for so long, I frequently can’t remember what normal feels like. Sometimes I can block it out, like I did all last year when other stuff was more urgent. It was an off and on kind of problem for my early life, but it has been more constant in later years. Now it is interfering with my breathing, which has had a cascading effect for my overall well-being.

All the testing I had done through December led a pulmonologist to tell me that the right side of my diaphragm is elevated, and he referred me to a surgeon down at Anschutz for a consultation about moving it back down more permanently. I asked the new guy in every way I could to explain exactly why it is higher in that side, in the same spot where I’ve had trouble since 1981. I never got an answer other than what boiled down to they sometimes get paralyzed and sometimes they heal themselves. Great.

So he wants to repeat the one test out of the five I had done that I felt was entirely useless, the sniff test. Maybe repeating it is an okay idea since the guys who did it barely gave me 30 seconds of attention before they declared me just fine and sent me home. But he wants it done at Anschutz, which means another long drive there and back for a test that literally could take less than a minute. With the morning commute today, stop and go on all the interstates, it took me an hour and a half to get there, and an hour to go home.

Once the test is done, he wants to wait. Just wait. He says that sometimes the nerve that gets damaged repairs itself. Sometimes they need to go in laparoscopically and stitch it down to give the lung all the room it needs. I’m in no rush to have another surgery (and I’d happily avoid it altogether), but it’s going to make for a long year if we are waiting for my body to magically regenerate. I’ve been waiting decades, and funny, it doesn’t seem to be doing it.

It's...

Inspirational song: Always Look On the Bright Side of Life (Life of Brian)

In the early 1970s, one set of my grandparents retired to an adorable mid-century house in Seminole, Oklahoma. They were about half an hour away from where I lived after my parents split up, so I got to spend weekends at their place fairly regularly when I was an adolescent/tween. I can remember them having two televisions, one in the den, and one in the bedroom. I recall watching the bedroom TV with Gramps on Sunday nights, when Monty Python came on the PBS channel. We thought it was hilarious (I preferred it by a longshot over Benny Hill, which he sometimes watched too.) My grandmother would come in and tsk at both of us, scolding him for letting me watch that show (she was particularly offended by the animations with naked ladies in them). Didn't slow either of us down. We loved Monty Python.

I must have been in middle school when Life of Brian came out. I knew that people of a certain bent were livid about it. They picketed and refused to allow it to be seen in towns all throughout the Bible Belt. My little Oklahoma town was solidly in the middle of that belt. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I was so excited when it made it to HBO. We were visiting my step dad's best friends in Dallas, and they set it up to record while we spent the day at Six Flags. I was distracted the whole day, anticipating finally seeing this movie I'd been waiting for for ages. Something went wrong, and when we tried to play the tape, it was just static. Foiled again!

I eventually saw Life of Brian, and it immediately zoomed into my pantheon of Perfect Movies for the Ages. I quote it all the time, to this day. I loved all the other Python movies, but that one was special. All of the Pythons had a hand in writing it, but it was directed by Terry Jones, so it reflected his touch in every scene. Terry disappeared from public life a few years ago, and it was announced that he was struggling with dementia. He passed away today. I have warring emotions about it. I am sad that he is gone forever, but truly, he had been gone for a while. I think I'm left feeling peaceful that he is no longer trapped in a body and mind that stopped behaving for him, and I'm grateful and joyful that he left such a body of work for me to revisit for as long as my brain still cooperates with my own body.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to go get naked and play my piano. If it offends the neighbors who can see in the window, even better.

Progeny

Inspirational song: Baby Don’t Get Hooked On Me (Mac Davis)

This was a great day to have small people on the brain. I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about things I will share with the next little Smith, like songs, stories, crafts, and Schoolhouse Rock. It’s gonna be great watching a new person discover all the things we learned and tried along the way. We can revisit things we once enjoyed, moved on from, and forgot about. We can experience the joys all over again.

Rotary gave me multiple chances to think about these things. Our charity fund presented a check to the Born to Read program. This group provides a tote bag to every new mama in area hospitals, with a board book, information on the value of reading (and speaking) to babies from the very beginning, and baby’s first library card. They have versions of their gifts in both English and Spanish. I got a chance to talk to the woman who was there representing the charity after the meeting, and I asked her the best way to start providing our incoming family member exposure to both languages from the earliest opportunity. She recommended sources for finding board books in Spanish (they buy theirs directly from Scholastic), which seems like the place to start, since none of us have ever done more than dabble in that language. We can all learn it together.

Our main program was given by an enthusiastic midwife. She told a compelling tale of educating folks in Afghanistan and Uganda, training locals as midwives and family planning advocates. Within the last fifteen or twenty years, Afghanistan experienced the worst rate of maternal death ever recorded, but with programs such as theirs, they now no longer rank in the top ten annually. Their work in Uganda is producing similar triumphs for maternal and infant mortality rates. As a woman who had a near-death experience in childbirth, this subject is very dear to my heart. I took home the literature, and will keep these people in mind when I have charity money or volunteer energy to share.

While I was pretending I wasn’t checking my phone (because I am as addicted as any of you), my daughter sent links to fun kid outfits she found online. She found a black onesie with what looked like a yellow tarot card with a red devil, captioned “el diablito.” We have way too many clothes already, but man, I hope she gets that one.

It’s a Dog’s Life

Inspirational song: The Raven (Alan Parsons Project)

Snuggling with Barley, Hops, and Jasper (our canine neighbors) isn’t tough. It’s mostly pretty fun watching them when their parents are out of town. They’re all good boys, although to be honest, Jasper is a little sneaky and he thinks either too much or too well. He’s always trying to convince us at bedtime that no, in fact, he does not stay in the room with Hops and Barley, because he is supposed to sleep on the couch. So far we haven’t fallen for his dog logic.

The boys are well behaved and their routines are simple. We just have to remember to feed them in separate locations, from their unique sources—Jasper from his special food his mama brings, Barley in his dish on the back porch, and Hops in the Kong treat-dispenser. Hops was a stray for long enough that he was very food-insecure, and he never quite got the hang of eating at normal speed. Barley on the other hand is a drama queen, and would rather give dramatic interpretations of the classics than actually eat when food is placed in front of him. (He’s a lot better than he was in the old days before Hops came along.)

When the weather is extreme, either hot or cold, we try not to leave them alone and outside for too long. That is less of an imposition now that T has Call of Duty and the Mr had a break between semesters. Mr S-P has been working on improving his gaming skills, but he reports that it’s much harder to gain experience points with Jasper trying to smother him. Thanks to the game, this time around I only had to do the feeding and putting to bed once. Mr S-P volunteered to do every other time while the humans were gone. Yet because the neighbors are super cool, and they went somewhere that I’ve been desperate to visit for many years, they came back with equal gifts for both of us. (See photo) I should probably throw in a little extra labor toward the Super Bowl party to feel like I fully earned mine. I noted that they are 24 ounce cups. That’s darned close to big enough for how much coffee we go through in a day. These will get a workout.

Great Googly Moogly

Inspirational song: Fight for Your Right (Beastie Boys)

Now that we know who the teams will be playing in two weeks, the idea of a fun football party next door at T’s has gone from a pleasant idea into a four-alarm emergency. This will be no casual affair. This man is the biggest Kansas City fan I have ever encountered. He was on vacation in Florida this weekend during the AFC championship game, and I am fairly certain I heard him hooting and hollering from here.

When we bought houses next door to each other, on the same day in 2015, we had no idea how his love of the Chiefs would influence us. That first football season, I had Sunday Ticket and he didn’t, so he came over to watch games with me in my basement. I remember when the first couple games went horribly pear-shaped, and in September of that year, he said, “well, football season starts in eleven and a half months.” He had already written them off. It was not until, what, two years later that he started getting giggly about this rookie quarterback they signed, swearing he was going to be the wave of the future. That was the year I played in his fantasy football league, and his team was already “Beer for Mahomies.” I didn’t quite get it, but I did start watching with him with more interest, mostly because I had drafted Travis Kelce onto my team.

By last year, we were really starting to catch the fever with him. Turns out that kid Mahomes is something special. We were heartbroken when the Patriots beat them in overtime in the AFC title game. Almost didn’t even bother watching the super bowl that year. Flash forward to this season, and we were in it to win it with T, watching almost every Sunday on his ridiculously large television. In fact, while he was in a sports bar in the middle of Florida today, we were snuggled up on his couch, with his dogs, watching the game on his TV. (Granted, at halftime the Mr was also playing Call of Duty on his gaming platform, but it was mostly so the dogs weren’t lonely over the weekend,)

We haven’t spoken to T directly yet. He’s on his way back from vacation. But he sent us the picture his girlfriend took, of his face when it really hit him that his team, his obsession, is going to the big game, for the first time since I was a toddler. The party is going to have to be insane now. Chips and salsa will not suffice. There will need to be themes and games and friendly wagers and all sorts of mayhem. I should start planning my potluck contributions now, and shopping for non-beer beverages (and no, gluten-free beer is not safe). I might even break down and buy a real Chiefs jersey. Or at least a t-shirt.

Needs Work

Inspirational song: One Night in Bangkok (Murray Head)

First night was, um, a long night. Out of about 9.5 hours of wearing the new breathing machine, it would be generous to say I slept for 3 hours. I spent a lot of time staring at the walls and tapping my fingers on the pillows. I can't say that I found the experience relaxing. And there was definitely a moment when Athena was up above my head, too close to the hose. I started waving my hands to make her move, since I couldn't open my mouth to tell her to go. She distinctly did not like that.

I felt rotten all day for not sleeping. Now that could have also been from getting a vaccine yesterday, but it felt like the lack of sleep was worse. I gave the machine another try, and had a weird nap with it on. I think I actually slept in two short bursts, interrupted in the middle by what felt like getting shocked on my cheek. I opened my eyes and Harvey was looking at me funny. Did he cause that to happen? Was it actually electricity, or did he touch me with a claw?

I resisted buying something over Christmas that I really wanted. I knew we had overloaded on tiny clothes already, and I had been ordered not to make Christmas about the small person who will be here in May. I went to the grocery store with my daughter yesterday, and when I dropped her off, she showed me that she had caved into the same impulse I resisted. I can't wait to put these clothes on a tiny person who will watch sports with me (sort of).

Sleeping Practice

Inspirational song: Sleep Like a Baby Tonight (U2)

Getting old is exhausting. And expensive. The good news is that today's bill was far less than I thought it would be after I called the insurance company yesterday for an estimate. 

I evaded and sometimes outright lied to doctor's assistants for years, every time they asked me screening questions about my quality of sleep. I weaseled my way out of doing any sort of sleep study for close to a decade, no matter how many times they asked me whether I had apnea or snored. At first I honestly didn't know. In the last few years, I started admitting to myself I was probably having a little of each of those things, but I was still in denial about how often. It isn't actually super bad even now, but it does register as needing attention. The study in December said I had an average of 13 obstructive episodes per hour, what they would consider mild to moderate. But that meant that the oxygen saturation in my blood bottomed out at 74% over that night. No wonder I'm so often forgetful and tired during the day.

My pulmonologist ordered me to get a CPAP machine. Dammit. That is what I was trying to avoid all these years. I didn't want to wear the giant apparatus that I'd seen my cousin wear when we all went camping out at the lake house in Texas almost 20 years ago. The idea of a big old mask, putting gouges in my cheeks that would take hours to fade, and a loudly chugging compressor--this was not going to work for me. When I tried the usual evasive techniques, the pulmonologist caught on to my fear, and assured me the technology has advanced greatly since I saw the scary machine at the campout. I might be able to use a "nasal pillow," he explained. I was still leery of that, but I agreed to try, for his sake.

Today was the fitting for the machine and mask. He was right, the machines are far quieter than the only other one I'd encountered, and he wrote the prescription for the lightest, least obnoxious mask there was (the nasal pillow variety). The tech at the medical device store was super understanding and patient with all of my questions, which was a great relief. I made her start with insurance benefits questions, so I didn't waste her time if my 20% cost share was going to be hundreds or (yikes) thousands of dollars. I had no frame of reference for this. She pieced together an invoice of the specifics for my prescription, and showed me my cost. Less than a hundred bucks initial investment, and a reasonable "rent to own" process. (Apparently they do it that way to make sure you're going to be compliant and actually use it, so they don't spend big bucks on a machine that will be thrown in a closet and never used.)

I really liked the expert who helped me get set up. She knew the equipment intimately, as a CPAP user herself. She knows my doctor and the sleep expert who I see next month for follow up care, and she said positive things about them. (This is one of my favorite parts of living in a smaller city--people know the doctors and lawyers and business owners by reputation, and give good references.) When we were going over my invoice and how often I'd need to replace masks and tubing and whatnot, she said, "Sleep is no longer free." My face lit up, and I asked her permission to quote her. That is one of the best phrases I've heard since this journey began, and it is exquisitely true. 

Now I need to get better about writing earlier in the evening, so I can power down my brain, and try some of this expensive sleep. I hope it's better than the free stuff.

Tapped Out

Inspirational song: Behind the Wall of Sleep (The Smithereens)

This is as far as I can go. I’ve been working too far above my skill level for too many days in a row. I don’t function like a normal person with normal energy and pain levels. Today the bill came due. I hurt everywhere, and I had two uncomfortable short naps during the day. My eyes are now burning, and my head is lolling about as I literally nod off.

I had several posts I’m really proud of in the last two weeks, plus a couple of stinkers. I am okay with just waving off again tonight. I need the rest. I have important economic decisions to make in the morning. Will discuss tomorrow.

Good night. Sleep tight.

Meme Life

Inspirational song: Fantasy (Aldo Nova)

Why do we share memes? Because they strike a chord of familiarity in all of us. We see ourselves in them. Just today I found myself accidentally acting out multiple memes, one of which I had nearly forgotten. 

In the early days of the internet, back when my old AOL address wasn't an embarrassing joke, there was a subset of the I Can Haz Cheeseburger cats called (if I recall correctly) Upstairs Cat and Basement Cat. Upstairs cat was white, and supposed to represent heavenly themes. Basement cat was black, and made to seem more demonic, in a cat meme level. This morning, my daughter greeted me as she so frequently does, with a photo of one of her cats, with no caption. I answered as I typically do, with the one closest to me. As soon as I sent it, I saw the meme. Behold:

Later, over our weekly D&D game, another--newer--one played out before our eyes. I don't think it requires much set up. The meme is included.

And people wonder why I am such a cat enthusiast. Seriously. What would I do for entertainment without them?

You know, maybe I can throw in one more, just for fun. No internet references attached. Just a good boy who knows he's about to get a little cereal milk. It seems like a good way to close out my theme.

Communication

Inspirational song: Word Crimes (Weird Al Yankovic)

Four years ago, I was struggling to communicate with the rheumatologist. I was anxious and defensive and I was tearing apart every sentence she uttered, trying to judge whether she believed my diagnosis or not. Every time she countered one of my complaints with, “yeah, but that’s not lupus,” I thought she was telling me she didn’t think I belonged there and that she didn’t want to treat me. She wasn’t. She was saying “yes, and,” but I was too twitchy to hear it. She meant that I was experiencing more than just the one condition, and we needed to expand my diagnoses to include the complexity. Once we figured out how to speak the same language, trips to see her became a source of comfort rather than stress.

I am approaching the same crossroads with my new primary care doc. I met her at a very difficult time last year, and I had trouble modulating my delivery with her. I was either so spoonless that I could barely whisper out a few sentences, or I was so agitated that once I got to my car I wondered how much she must have doubted my sanity. I felt like I overwhelmed her a couple of times. But I had had that same irrational fear that she wouldn’t believe the symptoms I had come to discuss, and rattled like a person in a full-blown panic.

The visit today turned a corner. Maybe it helped that I wasn’t in the driver’s seat this time. She had asked me back to do follow up, and I didn’t walk in with a plan. She was able to ask all the questions she needed without me anxiously talking over her. There was real communication and I left feeling more hopeful about our relationship than ever. She gave me some simple assignments, and I already completed one task on the way home from seeing her. I agreed to return in a few months for another update, after the various threads tie up. Now this time, hopefully I will remember what it is I’m supposed to bring to our next meeting... or maybe it’s better if I don’t. That tactic worked out awfully well this time around.

Why This Time?

Inspirational song: Déjà Vu (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young)

Once again, I find myself on the eve of a visit with the new primary care doc, and I have no idea what information I was supposed to have completed before I returned for a follow up. This is at least the second time I’ve been in this situation, maybe the third. Why do I have such a mental block on the details with this person? She seems like a decent enough human. I haven’t a reason to dislike her. I just can’t keep straight what I’m supposed to accomplish and remember for her.

I’m pretty sure I did most of the things I was assigned back in December. I got an X-ray and met with the pulmonologist within 36 hours of our last meeting. I saw the other two specialists and between them had a mountain of testing. Maybe we are just supposed to go over the results? She’s been great about approving follow-on referrals for me. I’m set to see two new docs over the next two months. (One of them is the plastic surgeon who can level me out after last year’s excitement, and insurance is supposed to cover not just reconstruction but also a reduction on the non-cancer affected side. Woohoo!!)

One thing I will tell her tomorrow is that I came to her to complain not a moment too soon. I feel like my lung capacity has shrunk even more since I told her I wasn’t breathing well. If at any moment I thought I was exaggerating, the last few weeks have disabused me of that notion. I tried to move stuff around between my two closets this afternoon, and while successful, I strained myself a bit too much. I mean, I carried a hanging organizer full of scarves, and it nearly broke me to rehang it in the bedroom closet. I used to be a weightlifter! That was my favorite form of exercise! And now I can’t raise up ten pounds worth of canvas and wool? Oh, the shame.

Knowing that I have to be up early to see the doc, I’m forcing myself to retire early. I’ll have this posted before ten, and I’m going to take a bath and maybe drink a hot beverage before putting myself to bed. What will I do with a luxurious extra two or three hours of sleep? Gee, I hope I ... sleep.

JGtFTB

Inspirational song: Poor Jerusalem (Jesus Christ Superstar)

A responsible grown up would have turned off the lights by now. A person with a better sense of right and wrong would not still be sitting up in the living room, cats draped all over her, listening to show tunes while she assembled puzzles on a tablet. And any normal human with a headache and sour stomach would have just gone the heck to bed by now.

Yet here I remain. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Maybe an hour ago I thought I couldn’t move to bed because my tablet was still charging. I’m negotiating with myself to power off and sleep. Does this count as arguing with my inner child?

Today counted as the fourth day in a row when my grand plans of organizing my guest room and adding to my donation pile were punted. Good things still happened. We got all of the Christmas decorations properly packaged and stored in the garage, and through a team effort we found what was rotting in the fridge (hidden residue from a leaky meat tray and a poorly-closed jar of Alfredo sauce). Getting through that used up all of my spoons. I tried to fold laundry as it came out of the dryer, and ended up just giving up halfway through and wadding it up in a ball on the counter before fleeing to the living room to sit and rest. My stamina is painfully lacking these days, and I am not quite sure what to blame. Maybe I won’t read too much into it, promise myself I’ll clean the guest room tomorrow, and go to bed after all.

Expected Results

Inspirational song: My Last Breath (Evanescence)

As night follows day, fatigue follows bursts of activity. So-called normal people could probably recover after a good night’s sleep and maybe an extra cup of coffee. It will take a bit more than that for me to shake off the effects of two days of highway driving. I’m moving slowly today and struggling with coherent thoughts. I failed to circle back to the house cleaning I put off for the two days we were out of town. I’m somehow not surprised. My whole body feels like it always did when we packed a moving truck ourselves, as if every single muscle was strained to the limit and I just kept on pushing. I tried to act normal for part of today, going out to lunch and shopping with friends and family. That just left me with heartburn and more fatigue. I fell asleep during one of the playoff games, and had zero regrets over missing the action. It seems redundant and unnecessary to keep going on about how tired I am. My composition won’t improve with volume. I’m off to sleep, and maybe if I’m lucky, actual rest.

Overnight Guests

Inspirational song: Fly By Night (Rush)

Driving five or six hours two days in a row used to be easy. That was “taking my time” between college and home when I was younger. Those were the good old days before sitting in a car for that long made my bones ache. Now I can barely walk or squeeze my hands after that sort of physical punishment. My ankles are swollen and my calves and hamstrings have tender knots. You’d never think when you’re young that sitting still would be so damaging.

I also used to like staying in hotels. Like really, really liked it. I barely slept at all last night. The bed was uncomfortably firm, the smell of bleached sheets was overwhelming, and I just felt out of sorts. I expected to zonk out after the impromptu drive, but it took hours for me to unwind and power down.

I didn’t enter through the lobby last night. The Mr just met me at a side door, and I went straight to our room. As we went went to breakfast this morning, he said something about the hotel looking like it was an old Holiday Inn. I asked him why he thought that, and then we entered the lobby. Oh. Yeah. He was right. It was like stepping back into the 1980s, right into my youth. The pool was in a central court area, with rooms lining it, two stories high. Welcome to the Holidome! Memories of countless church and band trips came flooding back. How did these places survive us? We were so obnoxious. I don’t think any of my trips landed at this particular Holidome, but the familiarity was undeniable. I could picture myself staying up late playing cards at a table in the courtyard with the Presbyterian youth group. I could still feel beer soaking me from the time when I was lying below the railing next to the pool, and a bandmate was trying (and missing) to pour it in my mouth from the upper floor. I had forgotten all of these hotels smelled so strongly of pool chemicals. It was kind of sad that this one didn’t still have tables set out in a big social gathering spot, begging for future groups of misbehaving teens to keep hotel guests awake and to annoy the snot out of hotel staff. I guess people just don’t travel like they used to. Pity.

Rescue

Inspirational song: Long, Long Way from Home (Foreigner)

Life has a funny way of changing your plans at the last minute. I was supposed to spend this evening in Boulder, chatting up other volunteers at the new Warren campaign office grand opening. Instead I'm now soaking in a tub, in a mid-priced hotel just off the interstate, where I have come to do a little road rescue. I'm hoping the soreness and swelling in my ankles will calm down soon so I can crash after the long surprise drive.

We still own the house we bought when we moved to New Mexico 12 years ago. We really wanted to sell it when we left, but we didn't get a single offer when we put it up for sale. (Now that I have real estate sales experience of my own, I am firmly convinced we didn't write a high enough commission in the listing contract, but that's a story for another day.) We have been renting the house out since 2011, and with each passing year I despair more that we will ever be rid of it. 

Last fall we learned that the gate to the back alley is falling apart, and the concrete block wall is starting to crumble around the hinges. The estimate we got for repairs was ludicrous. So the Mr intended to drive down this weekend and fix it himself. The cost of gas and three nights lodging on base was less than the estimate. He doesn't own a pickup truck anymore, so he borrowed one to do the drive, and he loaded a ladder and concrete mixer in it and took off this morning. About the time I got back from a sales meeting in Fort Collins, I got a message from him that the clutch was acting squirrelly going up Raton Pass. Moments later, I got a second text correcting it: the clutch had failed, a few miles from the top of the pass.

He muscled the truck back down to Trinidad, and stayed put while I drove down. I get to take him to Pueblo for a rental vehicle with a tow dolly, and then I can go back home. I'm struggling with the wisdom of that plan. Maybe I ought to go to a Barnes and Noble or something in Pueblo and hang out for a couple of hours while he gets the truck, just in case. I'd hate to be well clear of, say, Castle Rock only to get a call to turn back around. I'll sleep on it and see how strong the plan seems in the morning.

Way Back

Inspirational song: Back In Time (Huey Lewis and the News)

For huge swathes of my life, I have been a military dependent. I shopped at the BX before I had any understanding that not all department stores were BXes. I bet I didn’t even know what the letters stood for (Base Exchange) until I was well out of childhood. Once I was raising my own kids, these stores were better than Walmarts for me. They had basically everything we needed at a reasonable quality, and they were tax free. That last bit saved us quite a few dollars on appliances and electronics over the years. Good deals at Christmas, too. I even taught myself to say “PX” and “NEX” when we lived in heavy concentrations of folks from other branches.

Since the Mr retired from service, I’ve barely set foot on a base. The closest one is at least an hour away, in normal traffic. But last year, a couple of days after my surgery, my ID card expired. I didn’t figure it out until I was more than halfway through chemo. I didn’t want to drive all the way down while I was feeling bad, and I certainly didn’t want to have my picture taken while I was bald. So I kept plugging away with an expired card. Not one of those medical office managers who scanned it since had said a word about the expired date. I guess as long as my insurance still paid, they were fine with it. Today was my day to get legal again, so to speak. I made an appointment days ago, and we drove all the way to SE Denver to Buckley to visit the MPF. It’s a good thing I made an appointment. As we were parking, they put up a note that said, in effect, “We are full. If you don’t have an appointment, and don’t sign in by 11:00, don’t bother.” But I planned ahead, so I was fine. My new card is good for another four years. Four years of remembering how I walked around town with a short wolf pelt on my head (my hair is tragically weird right now) and I just got used to it.

We went to the BX both before and after the appointment. He was in search of a new laptop, and I had decided it was time to attach a DVD player to the upstairs TV. He didn’t settle on a computer, but I picked a mid-priced player for myself. I went back and forth on how good of one to get. I never bought all that many Blu-rays, but I own enough that it would have been dumb not to get a player that can take both. But I already have all the streaming apps on the television, so I didn’t care whether the player had built-in WiFi. Not hooking it up to the internet. I just want to be able to play some discs upstairs, and I want a machine that I’m not emotionally invested in, so that if in a few years a toddler pulls it to the ground and smashes it, I would merely be disappointed. It feels like I took a giant leap backwards to tech from the early two-thousandsies. 

The whole day felt nostalgic. It was weird being on a base. The gate guards intimidated me more than they used to. I felt conspicuous in the MPF, like I didn’t fit in anymore. I was eavesdropping on a couple very (very) young spouses, and their conversation seemed timeless to me, and not in ways that were entirely comfortable to hear. We grabbed breakfast at the Commissary, and being there was a freaky trip too. And even though tech and styles and media have changed dramatically, the wares at the BX, while essentially current and modern, still felt very specific and peculiar. Are we sure it’s not 1998 anymore?

(the BX was under renovation, hence the scuffed concrete floor)

And while I was trying to get a decent picture of the logo on the bag, I had two helpers decide they needed to be in the photo:

Arranged

Inspirational song: Also Sprach Zarathustra (Richard Strauss)

It was a total revelation. We didn’t know it was allowed to be this easy. This holiday season our daughter gave us an artificial tree that a friend of hers had abandoned at her house. This third hand tree went together in a snap. Just put the four layers together and plug the pre-wrapped lights into each other. Yeah, there were a few bulbs out and bent limbs. But as we have never been fake tree people, it was weird to have this low-maintenance decoration in our house.

We traditionally left our lights on and tree up until at least Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas. That was yesterday. So we both agreed it was time to pull stuff down this afternoon. I started pulling soft ornaments down, but I got distracted, and he finished the whole thing. By the time I got back, there was one layer of tree still standing, and two cats with big eyes and swishy tails loving the mess on the floor. And that was it. In just a few minutes it was down. I can barely credit it. Of course, getting the ornaments put away is annoying and time consuming, but the rest of it seemed criminally easy.

We are trying something new with our giant, ancient plants. I had the ficus tree (that was one of our wedding gifts a million years ago) sitting in the front corner of the living room for four years. It didn’t get enough light, even with the CFL spot light I put on a timer every night. It is looking dead on one side. We pulled it out of the corner and moved it to a better spot in the window. The big old shefflera (which oddly coincidentally was an anniversary gift maybe 15 years ago) is in the corner now, and smaller stuff between them. Not sure how I’ll take to the new arrangement. It does seem like the front room will be more private now, and probably darker.

Mag-Neato

Inspirational song: 30 Days in the Hole (Humble Pie)

Thank goodness I'm not claustrophobic. I seem to find myself inside of an above-average number of big imaging machines. Have I just perfected the right way to ask the question of why does (this or that thing) hurt? Apparently. But then, all those CT scans and X-rays and MRIs usually do turn up stuff. At least I know I'm not a hypochondriac or a liar. Not so sure I can disavow being a wimp or whiner all the time, though.

I didn't really push hard to get today's test. I even brought in a disc from the MRI they did of my hip when I threw out my back so hard they kept me in the hospital for days. But that was four years ago, and the doc waved it off (barely even read the report), and said it was too old. I was there to complain about my mid-back, and by the end of the conversation, she was putting in an order for the whole damn spine. Sure, whatever. Just make sure insurance says yes first.

They blocked off three full hours for my appointment. Holy cow. I did not want to spend that long in the machine! Thankfully it wasn't that long. It was still a solid hour and a half, which was quite enough. I had to go headfirst for the top two sections (cervical, thoracic, lumbar are each considered separate tests). They had me wedged into a head brace so I couldn't move, and wearing foam earplugs that made it hard to hear the Pandora station they plugged in for me. (I chose Marillion, duh.) After most of an hour, I got to hop up and get blood flowing again. Then I had to climb back aboard, and go in feet first. I had better headphones for round two, but man, those machines are loud no matter what they do to make it better.

No idea how long it will take to get results. Will they upload it to the portal or do I have to wait until the orthopedist sees them and calls me back in? I hope I have a plan of action soon. It kind of sucks getting a backache every time I try to stand more than a minute in my kitchen.

Inspirational song: I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables)

Don't get the wrong idea. The song tonight is my current earworm. I had Les Mis playing on the TV while I cleaned out my closet yesterday, although I came into it more than halfway through, so I missed that song. My brain has been challenging me ever since to remember more than about three words of the lyrics, so I played it about half an hour ago, thinking it would cure the earworm. Instead it's playing on a loop in my head even more frantically. I'm not wailing in desperation over a life gone wrong. I'm just wishing I knew the words by heart and could sing worth a damn these days. (The malfunctioning diaphragm that has sent me for every expensive imaging test they could think of makes it hard to hit and sustain notes. Hopefully it will improve when they figure out just what to do with me.)

My little Park tried to blow away last night. We had sustained winds in the 40s, with at least one (I say many more) peak gust at 48. Stacked construction materials in my back yard blew around, the hot tub lid blew open, and it sounded like the entire place was about to pick up and roll down the street. But oddly, a swimsuit and towel I left on a chair outside were just where I left them. I think the leaves we never raked ended up several blocks south of here, but that's okay, we got all the leaves from blocks north. It balances. It was too chilly and I was too focused on my indoor tasks to inspect for damage.

The Great Purge of 2020 has begun. No, I don't mean like those dumb movies. I mean I have hauled out a huge stack of stuff from my closet to donate at the ARC. So far I'm getting rid of decorative pillows and blankets I don't need anymore, plus some dresses and a blazer. And considering I haven't been a regular bowler in more than a decade, and my back doesn't allow it anyway, it's time for someone else to own my ball and shoes. I don't even know if any of the things I want to donate are worth money. Putting it up to sell online sounds like too much work. The thrift store is like 5 or 6 blocks away, and just hauling it there is daunting. But my goal is to remove a literal ton from this house before the next Smith arrives in May. I have to find the inner strength to load up my little car and make about 15 trips to the drop-off point. It will be worth it.

Photo credit to Mr S-P. His post-windstorm caption: "We will rebuild."

Simple Joy

Inspirational song: Peaceful, Easy Feeling (The Eagles)

Every year, I’ve confessed to my embarrassing superstition, that what I’m doing New Year’s Eve sets the tone for how that year will go. This isn’t a new revelation. This year, I really hope it works that way. (It has in the past, so there is a chance.) This time the moment was so simple, so peaceful. I would like that to be my theme for this year. Everyone was already talking about how horrible things were by the 3rd day of the year. So far, I’ve remained quiet, as I was that night, and I’ve maintained the mellow feeling I had as well. Four days down, 362 to go (leap year).

I was particularly easy to please today. We took our routine trip to the 300 Dollar Store (Costco), to stock up on the really important stuff: pet food and coffee fixings. I struggled to find broccoli in the frozen food aisle. I had given up and was reaching in for mixed veggies when I saw it, the thing I wish for every time I’m there: new gluten free stuff I can actually eat. In between the rows in the freezers, there were cases of pre-made Brazilian cheese bread bites. I had to hunt down where they were displayed, but eventually I found them. Most Americans can’t picture a world where convenience food is denied them, but I live in that world. My pantry and freezer are full of ingredients, not instant gratification foods. I grabbed two bags of these little miracles of convenience and vowed I would never be without them again.

I also escaped another trap I’d been wallowing in. I have been stuck using the same set of sheets for close to eight years. The blue ones I’d had were the right texture for me. Others I’d tried were either grabby (my pajamas clung to them) or they weren’t breathable and they made hot flashes unbearable. So I returned to the same set of sheets until they started getting tiny rips in them, so convinced was I that all other sheets sucked. Today I bought two sets to try, and so far, a ridiculously cheap set just might work for me. It’s cotton and tencel (whatever that is), and it is smooth enough not to irritate me. I have hopes. Unless I massively overheat tonight, I will have broken out of my rut.

It may all sound trivial, but that sense of rightness I felt on NYE was grounded in simplicity. In a complex world, finding small, uncomplicated ways to calm myself works for me. Three hundred sixty two to go.

Ahead of Schedule

Inspirational song: Lullaby (Shawn Mullins)

While it might be awesome to stay up to regular time--midnight or later--waiting for inspiration to strike, I just don't want to. That sounds like torture right now. I'm sleepy tired and I have a tummy ache. Nothing in that is going to make a good story suddenly appear. I could lie and pretend otherwise, but I'm smarter than that. I am hoping that by the time local news comes on at 10, I will have taken my pills, changed into jammies, and turned off the lights. 

I wish I had had my camera in hand when I dumped a bagful of fresh crickets into the lizard cage. Bruno's pose when dinner finally appeared after a long holiday would have been a great photo for tonight. He seemed so earnestly surprised and happy when crickets started dropping from the sky. It's kind of how I'm facing the prospect of an early bedtime, as if I can't believe something so cool is happening to me. I'll be fine without the sky raisins, though.

Leg Warmer

Inspirational song: I'm Tired (Blazing Saddles)

Not every swing is going to be a hit out of the park. Or the Park, to use the proper noun. Yesterday's news was pretty awesome, and people were appropriately cautious with their comments. We are doing all we can to avoid using that specific word that will trigger the Facebook algorithms to target all of us with specific advertising just yet. (Eventually we won't be able to avoid it, but let's delay that, shall we?)

I don't have anything nearly as exciting now. It is comforting to me that I got my oil changed in my car, but that makes for some boring reading. I really just had a low spoons day. My activities were limited. My enthusiasm was low. The word of the day is "Meh."

So I'll just hang out where I'm stuck, underneath a Murder Floof who is toasting my legs like carrying a casserole dish in the car. Even if there is a blanket between us, there is too much warmth per square inch for comfort. Plus, I'm pretty sure she's sitting on my embroidery snips, and if I reach under there, one of us will have a band-aid moment.

Release of Information

Inspirational song: Your Mother Should Know (The Beatles)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I suck at keeping secrets. I mean, really, have I not spent almost seven years spilling every nugget of data contained in my head, each night in three short paragraphs? I’ve ruined so many other people’s privacy over my lifetime that I’ve had to warn everyone if information is really sensitive, I would prefer never to be told until I absolutely must. To protect myself and others, I have gotten better about just forgetting things exist rather than remembering and trying not to say anything.

Thus it is a true miracle that I managed to keep my digital mouth shut for two and a half long months with the biggest secret of my adult life. But it wasn’t my news to share, so I had no choice. I had to wait until I was given clearance. Even now, I have to proceed with caution—and so must you. I have been requested not to plaster specific keywords all over Facebook. I am not allowed to tag anyone, and I don’t want to be tagged ever. I have been ordered to be vague with my titles and use euphemisms. Pictures will be right out. Please be equally cautious with comments!

What is this state secret? My family is getting bigger! Next spring, there will be a brand-spanking new Smith at Smith Park! My daughter is halfway through growing one of her own. I found out in October, and it was the best birthday present I could have wished for. Mr S-P and I attended an ultrasound last Friday, and it was wonderful. We are all agreed that we would prefer not to find out in advance what sort of plumbing the littlest Smith will have. That’s not the important part and the surprise will be nice. We will learn who they are when the time is right. All we care about is that they exist and we get to be a part of their life.

I don’t have permission to share the ultrasound images, so I’ll have to come up with something completely unrelated. We did a little crafting while we played our regular game. We painted coffee mugs with a type of enamel made for this. We will bake the designs on later. There was a team effort on one of the palette plates. Shapes sort of organically appeared in the paint as it was used, so my foster daughter took a little black and outlined the image she saw in the swirls. I hate knowing I have to wash the paint off, but it’s on one of my bread plates. Even if it is the chipped one, we still use it.